


Undiscovered Countries

by dezolis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dezolis/pseuds/dezolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a wolf and a queen and she wants everyone to see.<br/>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme for the prompt:  The King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms can't get enough of each other. They have sex constantly, in various positions, anywhere they can. This makes things kinda awkward for the people that walk in on them, especially since Sansa and Aegon both seem to love having someone watch them and refuse to let whomever's caught them leave until they're done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undiscovered Countries

“It can be…pleasurable,” Septa Mordane once told Sansa in a nervous whisper when she asked on a dare from Jeyne Poole what a lady might expect in her marital bed. Sansa took that word, “pleasurable”, and spun it round over the years, giving and taking away meanings with the ebb and flow of her hopes and fears. So many experiences shifted the definition to a cynical euphemism, not to be trusted, not to be wanted and to be spoken only with a smile arranged by duty. Oh, there was Myranda Royce whispering in her ear, “not true, not true” and offering up the stories to prove it but Sansa was reluctant to believe, to redefine. There was a time when she would have believed with all her heart, but the world had aligned to show her the folly of that much blind faith.

But then it all shifted once more, and the dismissed dreams of childhood became her new reality. Her piece advanced in the game of thrones and along the way, she collected her beautiful prince, gained a crown and seven kingdoms and reclaimed what family and hope she could. The only price she had to pay for any of it was to go to another marital bed, the echo of that one word trailing after her.

There is nothing in this new bed that should remind her of her first with Tyrion. Sansa would come to it of her own accord for one. She moves her own piece now and she has moved it further and better than any of her would-be controllers had. She will not yet call it love, this match with Aegon, and may not ever she’s sure to remind her more mature, more pragmatic self, though she is fond of his sweetness and endeared by the thought that someone could be as idealistic as her younger, starry-eyed self.

Certainly, she will never lack for something pretty to look at so long as he is around her. If anything, Aegon is fairer than the fantasy princes she and Jeyne conjured up between giggles and sighs. The key difference, she supposes, is that he is real. He is tangible. Silly, dreaming girls could never understand the weight and warmth of a man’s presence beside them and what it means when he smiles or takes their hand.

He is real, he is hers and moreover, he is as uncertain and unsure as she, his own values for pleasurable coming from stories wheedled from his friend, Duck, and the relentless, but not without benefit, teasing of his Dornish cousins.

Perhaps, Sansa thinks, if blind faith is foolishness, then faith with eyes wide open will be the wisest path.

It starts with a kiss - a chaste and formal show put on in front of the lords and ladies at court so that they can see the great “love” between their king and his betrothed. It should continue in the same manner until their wedding. It should, but there’s something in the taste of his lips that causes Sansa to ask for private performances.

From there they find the courage to go further and his lips find her neck, her hands begin exploring along his back. Not even to the bed yet, and Sansa starts to concede that Randa had the right of it all along; Sansa just didn’t have the proper context to understand. Insight is gained by experience. The run of a tongue along teeth, warm breath against skin, the palming of a breast – these are connotations she’s been too innocent or afraid to consider.

She is learning though. They both are, through devotion to the old axiom of practice making the best teacher. It isn’t long until Sansa knows every curve of Aegon’s body and he knows hers. There’s a precise spot on his neck to nip; he can trace well-worn trails over and along her thighs. Nothing gets her wetter than hungry fingers dipping into her smallclothes and nothing gets him harder than feeling how wet she is. And once they’ve sated themselves on these teases and tastes they move on to more filling courses.

The first time he truly takes her, two nights before their wedding, she shudders at the pain of his entrance, but whatever displeasure that brings about is washed away in kisses, caresses and strokes that go on even after his seed is spent and Sansa’s body is wracked by trembles of an entirely different nature. They lie together exhausted, she playing idly with a lock of silver hair while he lays his head against her breast and she asks which of his teachers gave him such a lovely education in these matters.

He smiles sleepily and mumbles some nonsense about her beauty and the inspiration it brings before praising the descriptive abilities of Arianne and Tyene. Sansa blesses the Dornish and has only one thing to add.

“What else did they describe?”

His cousins, it appears, are extremely imaginative women. So it is that practice is soon joined by the tenet of experimentation as a way of gaining knowledge. Randa’s tales grow tame and Sansa wild as she discovers the joys to be had upon her back, sitting astride her husband and down on her hands and knees. Kisses upon the lips of her mouth are sweet; kisses on the lips between her legs are delicious. Fucking is all that she can call it. That old whisper of ‘pleasurable’ is forgotten in a howl of rougher, better words. She thinks of her septa and the mortification the woman would have felt if she had ever learned the kind of education Sansa seeks out now. Sansa doesn’t feel any shame. She is a wolf, after all, born with hunger and ferocity, and she only has sadness for those who never get to feel the thrill of so thoroughly capturing their prey.

She’s marked him, nails and teeth leaving bright scratches and welts against his skin. Sansa has come to love peeling the layers of his clothing off. Part of it is the thrill of sliding her hands under his tunic or into his loosened breeches and letting them roam until Aegon begs for her to remove the clothes entirely. The rest is the sweet sight that greets her when she’s through with her work. That perfect flesh marked by her, as hers. It’s almost a shame that he covers the signs of her touches; she wants others to know how she’s claimed him. The next time they fuck, her back rubbing against the stone of the wall of his solar and her legs wrapped around his groin while his fingers dig into her ass to help hold her aloft, she toys with the idea of scratches along his neck that no collar or fall of hair can cover.

She’s poising her nails when the door swings open and an unsuspecting errand boy with an armful of scrolls comes through. The scrolls fly from his hands onto the floor and apologies fly from his mouth. Aegon pauses mid-stroke and a blush rises on his face. Sansa, however, simply wraps her legs tighter. The only thing the boy can see is the back of his king, gloriously scored by his queen. If the boy has any question as to exactly how all those marks got there, Sansa gives a wicked grin and bucks her hips forward, drawing Aegon’s cock fully back in. Aegon can’t help himself. Audience or no, he can’t suppress the moan this friction elicits. Sansa can’t help but laugh as the boy flees, scared of reprimand for now but no doubt already anticipating how popular this tale will prove with his friends.

“Wicked woman,” Aegon purrs and if Sansa has any questions as to exactly enticing he finds this wickedness, he dispels them by thrusting faster and deeper. By the time he comes, there is another track of scratches just beneath his shoulder blades.

It’s one detail of many missing from the story when the channels of King’s Landing gossip flow back to Sansa. Her ladies in waiting will speak of it in only the lowest whispers and cease speaking entirely when she enters a room but a good queen always remains informed. A true she-wolf, Sansa’s been proclaimed and though no one will say it to her face, she would thank anyone who would call her so. The meek girl who muttered lies and courtesies out of fear is not even a memory in King’s Landing. It’s a fierce and wild woman who wears her name now.

Some of the tale’s variants are a bit much. She bites but does not draw blood, much less lap it up nor would she ever wish to hit Aegon. Not where they’re saying or as hard at any rate. Neither has she ever bound him by charm or more corporal means, though she can see the appeal in the latter. The shock the tale causes brings a joy of its own and she has to admit she’s disappointed when the retellings become scarcer as fresher gossip enters the discourse.

“Perhaps we should scandalize another errand boy,” Aegon suggests playfully. Her husband definitely has his moments of inspiration.

Indiscretion becomes the better part of their ardor and as voluminous as the Red Keep may be, there’s soon hardly a room they haven’t christened. They don’t always chose the locale on the likelihood of an audience and solitude is never an incentive to stop, but it’s really a matters of numbers, Aegon concludes to Sansa’s mirth, that if one does something often enough, one is likely to be seen. They do draw a line at such sanctified places as the White Sword Tower, though this doesn’t spare most the Kingsguard from gaining new secrets they are sworn not to share. Others in the palace take in similar sights, but they aren’t constrained from speaking. More tales are told and every hint of the word ‘shame’ that works its way into them is a taste of triumph for Sansa, because of all the sensations she’s felt with others’ eyes upon her as her husband’s body moves against and within her, shame has been the least of them. It’s pride she feels. Pride that she has come this far, cares this little for condemnation and wants everyone to see.

There are wagers too, bets made on when the wolven queen’s belly will be full of pups, because surely, something must come of all this ‘activity’. Aegon thinks it’s a step too far but Sansa finds it amusing. She’s been to a maester and already knows who among her ladies stands to win the most. She doesn’t tell of course. They learn the same way they’ve learned everything else. A swelled belly’s a hard thing to hide on a woman rocking back and forth atop her husband’s hips while wearing nothing but a crown, after all.

The ladies excuse themselves (the victor a bit too happily than is polite, Sansa thinks with a smile) from intruding with mumbled promises to come back later to help the queen prepare for her day. 

“On the hour,” Sansa instructs and Aegon is surprised.

“Finishing up early?” he asks.

“Who said anything about being finished when they return?” Not she. The marks along his ribs have faded leaving plain, unclaimed skin, the babe in her belly has bolstered all of her appetites and no matter how often and how clearly Sansa has defined what pleasurable can be, she has also discovered she will never tire of contemplating all the sweetness it can hold.


End file.
